Flight Risk
by mallou
Summary: It was an odd feeling, falling.


**Title~ **_Flight Risk_

**Pairing~ **_None? _

**Rating~ **_T, just to be safe._

**Author's Notes~ **_This was meant for NaNoWriMo. I'm so laaaaaaaaate. But, that aside, this is pretty scatterbrained. I was just writing down random things while studying for my report on Central Africa._

* * *

He wasn't as crazy before the revolution.

The Baltics didn't tremble at his name before then, not as many feared him so horribly, and Natalia wasn't as a clingy.

For a few years after the collapse of the Tsars, the installment of Bolshevik government, and the murder of the royal family of Nicholas II, Ivan had felt as if the entire thing was his fault. After all, wasn't he Russia -now the Soviet Union? Didn't he represent the People and appealed to their best interests?

The large nation locked himself in his room for days on end, refusing to speak to anyone, to eat any of the meals placed outside his door in the hope that it may open. But night after night, day after day, those once warm delicacies were whisked away- cold and untouched.

It felt like bitter betrayal. The people had come together so openly around Nicholas II in World War I to fight off the invaders, only to murder he and his family barely three years later.

Eventually the fair-haired nation had wandered out of his room, face drawn and eyes sullen, the dark bags making the violet irises even more stunning. He was welcomed warmly by Vladimir Lenin, the leader of the Bolshevik party. Ivan couldn't help but feel scornful, despite Lenin's modest nature.

* * *

After that, time passed in a blink of an eye, and Ivan suddenly found himself in the middle of a bitter rivalry with his once close friend- America.

Sure, he vaugely remembered the tangy smell of blood, the sticky substance on his face clothes, not all of it his own. He remembered waking up with a pleasant surprise one morning to find harsh sunlight shining through his curtains, and Prussia curled up on the bed beside him, half-nude.

But other than that, everything was a blur, and it was a shock to be so suddenly jerked into reality and have all of this new information shoved upon his shoulders.

At the summits, he and America would glare darkly at each other, hiss a few sharp-tongued insults and maybe give a well-aimed spit in the other's direction. Otherwise, there was no communication besides the threats exchanged between their bosses.

Nuclear weapons grew bigger and stronger, and technology was eventually sent into space. When home, Ivan could hear the restrained giggling of Hungary and Armenia as he marched in one of his fits, after learning that America had surpassed him in one thing or another. But, a sharp glare silenced the two tittering women and shooed them off to work.

* * *

Another blur. Years passed by, and, quite frankly, Ivan was getting sick of it. Though he had lived many, _many _years, he wanted to remember them all. He wanted to see if there was some chance of bringing back that little happy family that he remmebered, gathering around the hearth with big smiles as they tried to stay warm through the harsh winter nights.

Through out the late 1980's and 1990, the large man's fevers had been reoccurring, keeping him bedridden. Lithuania timidly brought him his work, keeping those pretty emerald eyes that Russia had loved so much on the floor while Ukraine tended his sickness, gentle hands shaking nervously as if she feared her younger brother to strike her. Prussia had popped in now and again to gloat, an arrogant smirk decorating his lips and crimson irises ablaze with a sharp stab of defiance. He knew he was going home, soon. Russia was dismayed.

His boss came at infrequent intervals to update him of the outside world, looking tired and sad and in need of a good night's sleep and hot soup. Ivan barely remembered this, though. His thoughts drifted in and out in a fever induced haze, leaving him unawares and vulnerable.

Then, sometime in December of 1991 (he couldn't remember the exact date), an unearthly pain ripped through his very being. His body broke out in a cold sweat beneath his heavy blankets as his back arched, and he cried out for someone to just _kill him _already. Many of his little countries stood by his bedside, along with the Baltics and his sisters, their faces grave and their eyes down turned.

Eventually his cries died down and his body fell back to the matress in an exhausted heap, his muscles stiff and sore and aching, breathing heavily as Ukraine reached forward with a cold cloth to wipe his brow.

"Ch-Chto sluchilos?" he asked breathily, barely above a whisper, words slurred.

Lithuania was the one who answered, a small, sad smile on his face. "We're free. The Soviet Union is no more."


End file.
